I should have slept with you that night I could have gotten us a hotel
I should have booked a hotel Not far from the bar
Someplace close to the bar It wouldn’t have mattered where
Wouldn’t have made a difference where As long as you get your dick sucked
As long as you get your dick wet All before breakfast
As long as you come before breakfast Now, every sight of me is an eye roll
Every time you see me, you roll your eyes. Preparing like I’m some kind of level 5 hurricane
A Kind Thing
So, this man’s backpack falls on the floor of the cafe. Everyone thinks this is a Starbucks. His bag is a combination of black and gray, small for Things like a laptop and a notebook. My instinct is to pick it up, and sit it back in the chair Before he returns from the bathroom, But I’m afraid if he comes out, and sees me holding it, He will cause a fuss, Accuse me of stealing, so I leave it on the floor No matter how much I want to pick it up. When the white man returns to see his backpack, He picks it up, and sits it back in one of the chairs at his table. I could have done something kind, But I didn’t want to get yelled at, I didn’t want to be accused of stealing.
Adam
How can you despise me When I think you’re the prettiest boy in the bar? Even after you and Stevo fell out, Even now when he won’t speak your name. Why do you look at me with such disdain When all I do is bless you with light, Baptize you with all the love You can stand?
50 Bucks on My 51st
As my mother walks about the house upset About the broken ice maker not working in her 1000-dollar refrigerator She slips me a check for fifty bucks and says Happy Birthday. It’s nice to know what I’m worth. My sister will probably get more.
Ammunition
Dear Daddy,
You might as well hand Ma a box of bullets, Watch her load the gun, Go stand wherever she wants you to stand And take your execution like a man.
Love,
Your Son
AngryA Tantalizing WeekA Friend’s PantiesA Ten Buck Phone FuckA Letter To You
Shane Allison has been writing poetry since the age of fifteen when he would hide off in the library writing sappy love poems about high school crushes. He has gone on to publish poems in a plethora of lit mags and anthologies. He has pinned two novels You’re the One I Want and Harm Done both published by Simon & Schuster. His latest poetry collection, I Want to Eat Chinese Food Off Your Ass is out from Dumpster Fire Press. You will usually find him hiding off in a corner at a nearby Barnes & Noble composing poems about hot, stroller-pushing DILFS.
“Hey man, you want your dick sucked?” There’s no one around and even if there was, they could care less cuz all men know what it’s like to get their cocks sucked, hummed on like a harmonica. Here’s a gloryhole just for you. “I’ll suck you good, dude.” Look into my eyes as I look up into yours, as I massage your boyish meat. Time to put the pen away and the tissue paper messages and get down to some serious business. He taps his foot. I tap my feet in the new Reeboks. “Stick it under the stall man.” “Yeah, that’s it. You sure got a nice one. Very suckable.” Cock crops out of a thatch of pubic hair. I start to jack him off and if I lean in just so, bent down on my knees, jeans and underwear off, legs sprouting from the other side of the stall, I can put my mouth on it. And I do and it is good. Let’s go somewhere else dude, I say. Where is there to go? Goody’s I tell him. Their bathrooms are famous for afternoon pleasures of Homo hootchee-coo. “Do you suck?”, I asked. “No man, sorry, I don’t do that.” He must be the straight-acting type. Afraid he’s going to be infected with my fag cooties. The kind of man with a wife at home who’s always too tired to give him head like she used to when they were young. Parked off onto some dark, dirt road with nothing but the night to keep them company. She really loved giving you head. You hadn’t been blown, or had a good jerk-off since gym class when you showered with other boys: hot water raining down on their pubescent pricks. They work up a good lather on those torsos. When your girlfriend gave you head, it really hit the spot. You almost came on the sweater she borrowed from her mother. I sat as naked as a jaybird on the toilet seat. “I sure like to suck cock,” I said. I opened wide for him like I was about to get my tonsils checked. I shut my eyes and groaned like a fat slob of a man on a whore. Could feel your prick expanding like a balloon in the very mouth I kiss my mama with. He tugs on his balls every now and then. He’s fidgety like they all are when they’re having discreet sex in public toilets. At this point, mall cops are the Anti-Christ. Sure to go to jail and get charged with committing a lewd and lascivious act. It will be my third offense of that. Tallahassee Police officers call me by my first name. Your wife would have to come bail you out. Find out about your dirty little secret. Or your shrink who you’re seeking to get help from. “I want you to cum on my chest.” And he does ever so gloriously. All over me like the partition slut I am. Use it as a spermy lube to get myself off. He stands there wiping spit and ejaculate off his prick. He is nice and stays long enough to watch me shoot a big load. And I do ever so heavenly into the tissue paper. “See you around.”, he says. I don’t say a word. I just want to wash off. Get all this cum off my chest. I want to rush home and watch an all-new episode of Sabrina: The Teenage Witch while eating my fast food of greasy fries and spicy chicken sandwich and forget this ever happened.
Black is Beautiful Collage
Adorable Face
for Jarret
I’m careful not to get hamburger grease on your poems.
A soggy tomato nearly drips into the face of Ava Gardner.
Ketchup and mustard stains the lap of George Romero’s eight-hundred dollar khaki’s.
I love the poem in reference to your father, the fireman.
Why do torch songs radiate blue light? I have seen you before.
I recognize the midnight curls, the adorable face,
your lips are that of a movie star. Pink, moist and for a wife
who waits for her husband with the movie star mouth as she reads from the pages of Vanity Fair.
I love the way you speak pretty to her. A man should never raise his voice to a woman.
He could wake up finding himself being burned at the stake.
I love the poem about Frankenstein’s Jeans. Stonewashed, sandblasted And plenty tough.
It reminds me of that favorite shirt that won’t fit anymore.
Ghost Sandals are the shoes that are no longer in style.
I’ve never been the type to follow trends. I don’t cookie-cut myself out after
some airbrushed buffoon out of a GAP commercial.
Beneath this sensitive, gullible exterior is a spiked-haired punk with pierced nipples
waiting to come out. Has anyone ever told you you have great teeth?
You make Tom Cruise look like an ingrown toenail. Brad Pitt is getting facelifts
just to keep up. If you weren’t married, I’d let you spit on me, but only if you promised to draw back, mix it
with some snot and let me have it. I mean really have it.
Calendar Boy Decollage
Betty
is the woman who fries the chicken too hard. For years she couldn’t make spaghetti. Schools of noodles are clumped together
in the rice strainer. the mashed potatoes carry lumps as large as brain tumors.
She’s always moving things around. nothing ever stays in its place, have to go to the end of the kitchen
for a spoon, fork, and finger cookies. Betty tells me stories of how I used to pull things off tables as a baby.
She told me about the time she left me for a minute in a room with a hot iron to keep me company and how I pulled that iron on my
baby soft thigh. She said it took the skin right off and they had to rush me to the hospital.
That iron was angry, so was the crock pot of stew I pulled down upon the same leg. I was seven.
I remember at age eight arriving at Mulla’s house from the second grade, sweating and hungry.
Karen was supposed to baby-sit. She said she would be right back, told me not to touch anything,
anything except for the stove with black spiraling tops that burned my hand leaving blisters
the color of taupe, blisters fat with pus and burn. Betty yells at Karen on the porch
in front of ferns hanging brightly and plants potted: earthbound. My hand soaks in a salad bowl of water over night.
There was nothing else she could do. Betty wasn’t the kind of woman who sat out cookies and milk.
She never kissed my boo-boos better or chased away monsters. She had her own monsters to deal with.
Boob Burlesque Oil & Collage
Chip on Your Shoulder
hey um hey man i dont mean to bother you but but you have a um you have a chip on your shoulder you see it can you see it its right here its right there see it there see it right there i think thats what it is it is its a chip man you got a chip on your shoulder its big too, man it’s huge too, man you got a big huge chip on your shoulder it’s so big it’s so big it’s big ole it looks old from the looks of it from the way it looks it looks like it’s been there for a while its a big ole chip and it’s on your shoulder, man listen, man will you listen to me do you see it i see it it’s there it’s here damn dude damn man damn man, dude, that chip is big, man get it off you better get it off do something you better do something something is what you better do it looks serious im serious you better do something cuz it looks serious cant you just knock it off im not touching it im not knocking it off get someone else to knock it off it looks painful does it hurt the chip on your shoulder does it hurt it’s big it’s about the size of a potato chip bigger than a chocolate chip i dont know chocolate chips like this a chip on your shoulder huger than a chocolate chip dude get that checked out, man it looks infected it looks hectic & infected heck, I just wanted you to know just wanted to let you know in case you didnt know that you have a potato chip-sized chip on your shoulder that is huger than any chocolate chip that I have ever seen
Cheesy Chocolate Collage
Searching For Allen Ginsberg
I looked for you when boys called me a fag in junior high. I needed you when Ira Miller poured milk in my face. I searched for you at age 12 when I discovered the wonders of masturbation in Aunt Tillie’s bedroom, in front of her black and white Zenith TV.
I wanted us to play with my sister’s dolls together. Where were you when I was walking in my aunt’s high-heeled shoes? We could have broke into my mama’s make-up bag, smearing lipstick on our mouths.
I want to tell you about the first time I swallowed semen. His name was George.
I searched for you on a filthy mattress in some dude’s window-tinted van. Where were you when Jack kissed me in a game of Truth or Dare, when Nick stood me up at the movies and never opened my love letters? I needed your shoulder to cry on.
I searched for you in Dennis’ one-bedroom apartment as he licked my ears, suckled my boner and rubbed my hands with lotion after it all. I thought you came back reincarnated as his smoke-gray cat.
I searched for you in the reflection of Ben’s windshield, in Robert’s ocean-blue eyes.
I searched for you in the underwear of frat boys, in the medicine cabinet mirror of John’s apartment before he left me for a redhead from Boston.
Is that you Allen, darling, in the produce section squeezing apples as ripe as my nipples?
Wish I were there when you read your poetry on the steps of Florida State University, when Reagan wouldn’t say the word AIDS in public, when you shot poetic loads in his Republican scalp.
I search for you in smoke-filled coffee houses, in every man’s apartment I have ever been in.
I search for you in the tearooms of Columbia University, the teacher’s lounge of Brooklyn College.
I search for you in the lobbies of bus stops, in the personals section of gay porn magazines.
I search for you in piss porcelain urinals of shopping malls. Check for signs of Jewish ejaculate in the rings of gloryholes.
I search for you through the concrete jungle of America.
Thought I heard your voice in the voices of guys who would ask, “Hey man, you gotta big dick? Can I see your dick?” I’ll read Kaddish for a hand job Allen.
You appear in my dreams, butt-naked and sweaty beneath my covers wearing one of my strawberry-flavored condoms. Your Beatnik lips circle my erection.
As Collin Haley mounted me in a multiplex movie theater, I wanted you to be there to watch and fondle your crotch in the row across from us.
As I look up into the face of the guy in Tom Brown Park, his dick stuffed in my mouth like a turkey drumstick, I wanted it to be you. I want you to be a part of my nutritious breakfast. I want you in my bedroom naked under the covers wearing one of my strawberry-flavored condoms. And in the morning,
Let’s talk about poetry over coffee and English muffins. Let’s get naked and smoke pot on the hardwood floors of my apartment. Let’s go whistle at the boys on Christopher Street. Tell me what’s the best time for you and I will be there.
Shane Allison has been writing poetry since the age of fifteen when he would hide off in the library writing sappy love poems about high school crushes. He has gone on to publish poems in a plethora of lit mags and anthologies. He has pinned two novels You’re the One I Want and Harm Done both published by Simon & Schuster. His latest poetry collection, I Want to Eat Chinese Food Off Your Ass is out from Dumpster Fire Press. You will usually find him hiding off in a corner at a nearby Barnes & Noble composing poems about hot, stroller-pushing DILFS.
‘Bout lost my mind when I didn’t see the usual. Where the pies at? I asked the cute, East Indian man Standing behind the counter. We sold out, he said. I didn’t know Hostess Apple Pies were so popular Among the masses of Greenwich Village. He knows how much I like my real fruit filling, The preservatives and artificial flavors. My world ain’t nothin’ but a flaky crust, A cream-filled Twinkie.
Gotta get somethin’. My sweet tooth is killin’ me. What’s it going to be: Snowballs? Ho Ho’s? Zingers? Crumb Coffee Cakes? None of this I like. Wait, this look good: Coconut Crunch Donut Delites. Six in a row. I’ll take these, I told the clerk. Place two quarters in his hand. Pull open the wrapper, Took the first one out for a taste test, And right then I knew, this was the last snack cake That was going to take the place of my everyday routine.
Shane Allison has been writing poetry since the age of fifteen when he would hide off in the library writing sappy love poems about highschool crushes. He has gone on to publish poems in a plethora of lit mags and anthologies. He has pinned two novels You’re the One I Want and Harm Done both published by Simon & Schuster. His latest poetry collection, I Want to Eat Chinese Food Off Your Ass is out from Dumpster Fire Press. You will usually find him hiding off in a corner at a nearby Barnes & Noble composing poems about hot, stroller-pushing DILFS.
You are the boy I’ve got butterflies in my stomach over But don’t tell your baby’s mama that. I’ve been told of the jealousy in her blood, How she mames & mauls, Will gut any girl who comes near you. She doesn’t know of the men that have stared Into your eyes on their knees. Drinks have been flung at mouthy bartenders To protect your honor. He deserved worse. Come bless these lips, this body with a kiss Wrap those sinewy arms around me Until all those butterflies fly out & free. Blessed be.
Shane Allison has been writing poetry since the age of fifteen when he would hide off in the library writing sappy love poems about highschool crushes. He has gone on to publish poems in a plethora of lit mags and anthologies. He has pinned two novels You’re the One I Want and Harm Done both published by Simon & Schuster. His latest poetry collection, I Want to Eat Chinese Food Off Your Ass, is out from Dumpster Fire Press. You will usually find him hiding off in a corner at a nearby Barnes & Noble composing poems about hot, stroller-pushing DILFS.
For Straightboys Who Can’t Imagine a Hairy Ass in Their Face
You don’t know what you’re missing. There’s nothing like an ass like a moon pie in your face, Nothing like cupping two, succulent asscheeks Like cantaloupe in your palm.
Butts sweeter than moon pies in my face With blushed buttocks fully grown and ripe. Robust like tomatoes in my hand To squeeze firmly, tenderly.
Blushed buttocks with waves of delicate hair That’s enough to make you want to sink your teeth in them cheeks To squeeze firmly, tenderly When performing anilingus
That makes you want to sink your teeth in them cheeks Of God-like proportions When performing anilingus On a plump, ready rump
Of Godly proportions. Whose tongue flickers in ripe-ready rumps I love to place my face in.
Whose tongue lingers On bouncy, blushed butts I love to place my face in? Guys like you, that’s who.
On bouncy, blushed butts, I will bust a nut On guys like you Cuz there’s nothing more notorious, as a glorious hairy ass in my face.
One of Them
One of them has a mullet One of them has a tattoo of a spider-web on his left elbow One of them has a thing for the other one One of them hit on me last week One of them got really drunk last night One of them threw up on herself in the bathroom One of them won’t have anything to do with grapefruit One of them gave his wife AIDS One of them has a kid in college One of them needs to have that mole removed One of them got in a fight with her boyfriend One of them is a top One of them is a bottom One of them got arrested for stalking One of them is impotent One of them use to be a game show host One of them let fireworks off in the club the same year that Pulse Club massacre happened One of them committed credit card fraud One of them won’t have anything to do with beets One of them smokes too much weed One of them drives a hybrid One of them is polyamorous One of them is pansexual One of them is anti-social One of them tried to commit suicide One of them caught Covid-19 on a cruise ship One of them got kicked out of the house for being queer One of them likes wearing bowties with three-piece suits One of them won’t have anything to do with squash One of them has a crush on Kevin Costner One of them won’t let it go One of them won’t leave it alone One of them drives a Porsche One of them didn’t show up for the funeral One of them is terribly mean One of them thinks he’s funny and charming One of them has a brain tumor One of them just had her last round of chemo One of them is estranged from his mother One of them has a brother in prison One of them is a crazy cat lady One of them got caught up in a sex trafficking ring One of them held a gun to her girlfriend’s head One of them is always the last to leave a party One of them is always the first to show up at a party One of them puts smoked turkey wings in his greens One of them had a heart attack last year One of them ran away from home One of them is the youngest out of seven kids One of them won’t return my phone calls One of them says I’m too needy One of them has a tongue piercing One of them is allergic to shrimp One of them has a bunion on her left foot One of them was almost on America’s Got Talent One of them use to be a stripper One of them left the country to get away from her abusive husband One of them blew me for twenty bucks to support his crack habit One of them loves cheese sticks dipped in honey mustard One of them is dating an artist One of them is addicted to poppers One of them puts ketchup on his grits One of them got frost bite in his hands two years ago One of them got attacked by an owl and almost lost her eye One of them sent me a picture of himself holding an eggroll next to his dick One of them has filthy fingernails One of them has a penile implant One of them sent me a picture holding a beer can next to his dick One of them makes the best weed cupcakes One of them doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the wall One of them couldn’t fix a hole in a paper bag One of them loves everything Clint Eastwood One of them has no idea what’s going on One of them needs to shave that Abraham Lincoln beard One of them grabbed my ass One of them got struck by lightning while golfing One of them skipped out on bail One of them cheated on his spouse One of them is in an open marriage One of them said, “Someday I will let you suck my dick.” One of them ate the last yogurt I had in the fridge One of them ate the last hot pocket One of them won’t clean the hair out of the bathtub One of them doesn’t like drag shows One of them reminds me of an old boyfriend One of them has a kid in film school One of them I want to slap in the face every time I see him One of them use to be my friend, but isn’t anymore One of them tried to sue me One of them broke her leg One of them needs a kidney transplant One of them hates women One of them is a white supremacist One of them is a communist One of them won’t keep her hands off me One of them got her pinky toe cut off in a motorcycle accident One of them is always high on something One of them has a different girl every week One of them likes mayonnaise on his hotdogs One of them makes promises he never keeps One of them has a pet python One of them has two warrants One of them is waiting for the right time One of them is a control freak One of them is mad at me about something. I don’t know why One of them has a pierced ball sac One of them pressed charges One of them almost didn’t make it One of them eats boogers One of them never stops talking One of them has a weird laugh One of them has a prosthetic limb One them is allergic to peanuts One of them committed credit card fraud One of them hates her father One of them hates the smell of chicken grease in the house One of them ain’t just whistling Dixie One them is attracted to me, but I’m not attracted to him One of them hates the color green One of them I sold for next to nothing One of them died in childbirth One of them was given to her aunt to raise One of them will not bend straight out One of them is fatter than the other One of them will not come up One of them only has one tail One of them looks like her mother One of them should not be drinking One of them is always sick One of them has only one tooth One of them blocked me on Facebook One of them said, “Had I Known you were gay in high school, I would have let you blow me.”
Shane Allison’s latest book Sweet Sweat is from Hysterical Books. His next collection I Want to Eat Chinese Food Off Your Ass, a collection of poetry, prose and artwork is forthcoming from Dumpster Fire Press.
